A Lesson in Chemistry
by 1Styx and Stones1
Summary: When an FBI agent needs advice on how best to work with her 'difficult' partner, a certain juvenile NCIS agent who is working undercover with her, she is sent to the one person who knows Tony DiNozzo best - Ziva David. An outsider's perspective of Tiva.
1. Part I

**I'm back! Sorry for the long departure from the world of fanfiction, but I had no power up until today. I was dying, people! Anyhow, this could be read as a one-shot, but enough reviews might persuade me to write a part II. (hint, hint) Enjoy!**

A Lesson in Chemistry

Director Vance squints at me and rattles a container of toothpicks meditatively. "Agent DiNozzo, eh?"

"My Director believes I need to perfect my role," I say, and try not to sound too sullen. I have been doing undercover ops for years, after all, and I have never needed perfecting before.

He nods and his mouth works furiously, his toothpick performing tricks like a well-trained dog. He doesn't even seem aware of what he's doing.

"And what does this have to do with me?" he questions briskly. "Talk to Agent DiNozzo if you have a problem with the way he works."

"I have no problem with Special Agent DiNozzo," I say quickly, lest he take insult for some bizarre reason. Politicians are weird like that. "He is very talented undercover."

Vance nods. "Ah. So it's you who has the problem."

I bristle. "Director Vance, I have been an undercover agent for years, and I am one of the FBI's best. I have worked in deep cover for over four months, as well as in foreign countries such as France, Morocco, and Portugal. I have never once-"

"Quit quoting your resume and answer the question, St. Pierre," Vance interrupts the monologue of my bruised pride with a skill that only crafty politicians possess. "What's the problem?"

"I am playing the long-time girlfriend of Agent DiNozzo's alias, Antonio Vincenze," I say, with my best attempt at humbleness. I am not sure how effective it is, but Vance nods for me to continue, so I do.

"Apparently I am not portraying the long-time familiarity that is required for the role. I seem 'stiff and awkward'"

I make finger quotes around the less than flattering adjectives to suggest that I beg to differ. Vance, however, does not.

"It's true," he says crisply. "You're acting like a cold fish on a first date. There's no chemistry."

Chemistry. There's that stupid word again. Apparently Agent DiNozzo and I lack the 'chemistry' that some of the Special Agent's other partners have possessed.

Truthfully, it was hard on a girl's self esteem to be waiting in the van for your cue while your co-workers, who are supposed to be watching the cameras, question Agent DiNozzo about some Agent David and whether or not they'd been faking it back in '06. Funny how he never answered.

I know that there's no chemistry. I'm trying, he's trying. But there's nothing. He's absolutely phenomenal-looking, of course, and some of the stuff he says just cracks me up. But I've known him for four days. How much chemistry can you fake in four day's time?

Regardless, Vance's blunt tone is a blow to my self-esteem. "What do you want me to do about it?" I say finally, my tone genuinely humbled this time.

He twirls his toothpick thoughtfully. "Talk to Dr. Mallard down in autopsy," he says. "He's a psychologist, and fairly close with DiNozzo. He can help you."

...

I step into autopsy, a hand held to my nose, and find a strange scene taking place. A man in surgical scrubs, pale blue and stained with an unknown substance, is holding what looks to be a bladder in his hands and quoting Rudyard Kipling for reasons I can't even begin to fathom.

Nearby, a gawky man in Harry Potter glasses is watching with rapt attention, a disturbingly large and bloodied pair of shears in his hands.

The third man, dressed nicely in office apparel, looks up from his smart phone when I walk in. He frowns in recognition. "You're the FBI agent working with Tony on the Schmidt case, aren't you?"

I nod, addressing the entire room, but extending my hand only to the agent, the sole non-bloodied occupant of autopsy. "I'm Elle St. Pierre, of the FBI. Yes, I'm working undercover with Agent DiNozzo, and I had a couple of questions for Dr. Mallard."

"That would be me," says the oldest man in a charming Scottish brogue, smiling and putting down the bladder. "Doctor Donald Mallard at your service, my dear. What can I do for you?"

"Director Vance recommended I speak to you in regards to Agent DiNozzo," I explain. "He seems to think you can enlighten me on how better to get to know Agent DiNozzo."

"Ah, Anthony!" Dr. Mallard beams. "He is a charming boy, not to mention a brilliant agent."

"Yes, very," I agree, remembering that Dr. Mallard is supposedly very fond of DiNozzo.

"He is not easy to work with," the doctor says slowly. "I believe Timothy will attest to that." He gestures to the well-dressed agent, who nods in recognition.

"Agent Tim McGee. Tony's a good guy. He just hides it well."

"Indeed," Doctor Mallard continues, "he is rather adept at using humor as a defense mechanism. If you wish to get to know him, you need to look past the attitude to see the man within."

"He doesn't seem very eager to get to know me," I say, and if I'm whining, the Scottish doctor overlooks it good-naturedly.

"That is far from your fault, my dear. You know, I believe, that you were not the first choice for the assignment?"

I try not to frown. "Yes, I had heard that."

"I am sure your own abilities are more than sufficient," he assures me quickly, "but I believe Anthony and Agent David usually come as a set in these operatives."

There's Agent David again. Who the heck is this woman?

"Tony and Ziva work well together," Tim explains kindly. "They've got this chemistry-"

Ugh. Chemistry.

"Then why was I assigned instead?" I demand, exasperated. "If this Agent David is so perfect, why isn't she doing it?"

"Agent David was nearly killed last week," the thin, gawky guy with the big shears pipes in. "Took a hunting knife to abdomen eight different times."

Doctor Mallard touches the corpse's abdomen sympathetically. "She is still in the intensive care unit, I believe."

Agent McGee shifts uncomfortably. "Actually, she checked herself out yesterday. Gibbs has her on desk duty."

Dr. Mallard looks appalled. "Jethro allowed her to return in her state of health?"

"She was holding a big stapler when he walked in," Tim explained. "It's hard to say no to Ziva when she's pounding staples into a document like she wishes it was your head."

The doctor wipes his hands on his scrubs and begins rearranging medical equipment. "Well, I should go remind her that the doctors had not entirely ruled out internal bleeding. Timothy, if you would tell Jethro that the bladder was indeed inflated as I'd suspected, I would greatly appreciate it. Mr. Palmer, please put our friend away."

Agent McGee turns to me as he heads for the door. "Our forensic scientist, Abby, has known Tony for years and she still hasn't killed him, so she obviously knows something about how to deal with him. Talk to her."

...

As soon as I introduce myself to the tall, darkly-garbed woman in pigtails and a lab coat, she frowns suspiciously. "You're French?"

"Second generation," I answer, puzzled not only by the question but by the entire woman in general. "Why?"

She doesn't answer, just looks as me with narrowed eyes. "You're not, by any chance, the daughter of an arms dealer, are you?"

Now I'm beyond baffled. "My dad died in combat when I was twelve," I tell Miss Sciuto.  
>She nods like she doesn't believe me, and asks politely if I don't mind waiting five minutes while she quickly checks my fingerprints, "Just to be safe."<p>

A couple of minutes later she returns, smiling, and tells me she's sorry about my father, who apparently is dead after all. "Now what can I do for you?" she asks

I explain my predicament, trying not to sound too bitter, and she darts around like a demonic hummingbird, pressing buttons on high-tech machines, straightening pigtails, and chugging something from a huge red plastic cup. When I finish up, she sits down in an office chair, spins it around once or twice, then fixes me with sharp green eyes.

"So, basically, what you're saying is that you need to figure out how to be like Ziva so that you can sell your undercover role and not lose your job?" she says cheerfully, speaking at a rate that, up until now, I had thought impossible.

I frown. "No. I need advice on how best to work with Agent DiNozzo, on how he works, what he's like. I need to figure out how to create chemistry."

She nods rapidly, making her pigtails swing. "Yah. Chemistry. You can't just create chemistry. You need to have personalities that, you know, click, and to do that you need to know how Tony's mind works, so you can change the way your alias acts to fit better with the way Tony acts, kind of. Right?"

I look at her for a second, then realize my mouth is wide open. I close it and nod. "Um, yes. Right."

She nods again, so violently that it is a wonder she doesn't contract a brain aneurysm. "Okay. So what do you want me to tell you? I mean, I could talk all day, except my voice would get worn out. Oh, one time Tony lost his voice, and it was so funny, but I felt bad for him, because Ducky made a movie reference and-"

I interrupt, because I have no doubt that she honestly could talk all day. "And this is relevant, how?"

Miss Sciuto shrugs.

"I don't know. I've been working with Tony for years, and I still don't know how his mind works. Besides, I don't know anything about being undercover, so I'm probably not the person to ask." She brightens. "I know! You should talk to Gibbs! He knows everything! Plus Tony is like the son he never had, so if he doesn't know what to tell you, then I don't know. Talk to him, okay?"

...

Agent Gibbs just looks at me. "You want what?"

"Advice on how to best work with Agent DiNozzo," I repeat nervously, looking around the dimly lit elevator in bewilderment. "I thought we were going to your office-"

"And what makes you think I know anymore than anyone else?" he asks flatly.

Feeling a little intimidated, I answer, "Well, Miss Sciuto said-"

He growls, "Abby..." in a way that doesn't bode well for the Goth scientist.

"So," I say awkwardly after a moment of silence, "can you help me?"

Gibbs just looks at me with icy blue eyes that show not an ounce of sympathy, just a substantial dose of irritation and maybe even a little bit of amusement at my own expense. "Nope."

"No?" I echo incredulously. I'd heard from Fornell, of course, just how completely arrogant and disagreeable Agent Gibbs was, but I had put most of it on Fornell's deep rooted dislike for any acronyms besides our own.

Agent Gibbs just smirks, shakes his head, and repeats the word, "Nope," popping the 'p' to add insult to injury.

"So . . . That's it?" I demand, getting frustrated. "You're not going to help me at all?"

He smirks again, that infuriating grin that makes me believe what Fornell says about that second 'b.'

"Talk to Ziva David," he says finally, turning the elevator back on. "She's in the showers, pretending that she wasn't just down at the firing range, which I expressly forbid her from doing."

"Oh," I say, startled and a little irritated. Great. Now I've got to talk to the Chemist herself.

The doors open, and Gibbs adds, "Might want to bring protective gear."

...

I wait in the women's locker room, unsure how best to approach this woman who I've heard so much about. I've only been in there a few minutes, pondering the likelihood of there being a stapler in the showers, when I'm joined by another agent, who is decidedly male.

"Hey, Elle," Agent DiNozzo says casually, leaning against one of the lockers like it's perfectly normal for him to be in the woman's locker room. "What're you doing here?"

"I need to talk to Agent David," I explain. He nods.

"Me, too."

"Oh," I say slowly, confused, "okay."

We make small talk for a few minutes, until the infamous Agent Ziva David makes her appearance. She is smaller than I had envisioned, and exotic-looking. She doesn't seem surprised to see Tony in the ladies' room, though she does spare me a questioning glance.

Tony doesn't say anything, just strides up to the smaller woman and lifts her t-shirt to inspect her stomach. The total violation of personal space does not seem to bother either agent.

"You shouldn't be here," Tony says, looking at Agent David's abdomen intently. She smirks.

"Says the man in the woman's locker room."

He doesn't smile back. "Zi," he says sharply, "the stitches are pink."

She waves this aside, removing his hands from her calmly and letting her shirt fall to cover the angry red scars that I just catch a glimpse of. "That is normal, Tony."

He sighs. "You could have called."

She raises a dark brow. "So that we could have this conversation in the hospital? I do not think so."

"No," he says, "so that I could drive you."

Her eyes soften a bit, and she reaches out to squeeze Tony's hand with a smile. He grips the tan hand fiercely with both of his own.

"You're sure you're okay?"

She rolls her eyes and retracts her hand long enough to twist her wet hair into a neat ponytail. The second her hands fall back to her side, they are again enveloped by Tony's.

"I am fine," she tells him. "It is you I am worried about."

He blinks, surprised. "Me?"

Her voice lowers, though I doubt either remembers that I am here at all. "Abby told me what happened that night."

His entire face slackens, suddenly looking older, weathered and pained. "Then you know why I blame myself."

"Wrongly. If there is anyone to blame it is myself."

He shakes his head. "How did I know you were going to say that?"

"Because you know it is the truth," she says calmly. "Now get going or Gibbs will be angry."

He hesitates, still clutching her smaller hands. "Dinner? When this whole undercover schpeal is over?"

She smiles. "Of course. Now, was there-"

I step forward, a bit awkardly, and try to smile. "I am Elle St. Pierre, I'm working with Tony undercover."

She gently disentangles her hands and steps forward, offering one hand to me and leaving the other in Tony's grip. "I am Ziva David, Tony's partner."

I look at the joint hands, at the tangled fingers, and at the way Tony is watching the slim Israeli, and I wonder what 'partner' means.

"Did you need Tony for something?" Ziva asks finally. I shake my head.

"Actually, no. I had a few questions for you, Agent David. Is there somewhere we could talk?"

Ziva considers, then nods. "I was going to take my lunch break soon anyway. There is a good cafe a couple of blocks down."

I am hungry, so my nod and smile are entirely genuine. "That sounds good."

Ziva turns back to Tony. "Let Gibbs know for me?"

"Don't come back after lunch," he instructs. As she opens her mouth, looking ready to protest, he continues, "Look, no matter how tough you are, the fact of the matter is that you're hurt, Zi. Do us both a favor and just lay on the couch for a while, okay?"

She sighs. "Call me later?"

He nods. "I don't know when we're getting home. We were up until almost 0300 last night, right, Elle?"

I nod. The bags under my eyes, visible even through my makeup, are a testament to the painful truth of that statement. Ziva simply shrugs.

"Then stop by instead. I will be awake. Agent St. Pierre, let me grab my things, and then we can go to lunch."

I nod, grab my own things, and follow the partners out of the locker room, wondering if this is chemistry.

If so, I don't see that there's much I can do about it. I'm good, but I'm not that good.

**The people have the power. Should I write a chapter 2?**


	2. Part II

**Well, thanks to some mind-boggling feedback - the most reviews I've ever had on a single chapter - I've decided to write us a Part II. Even better, I've got a short plot in mind. I could take this a couple more chapters if you people want. This is shorter than the first, but it's something, right? So thanks to everyone who urged me to continue. As you can see, I have. Duh.  
><strong>

**Disclaimer - I am out of funniness. Sense of humor is officially closed for today. My funny bone has been shattered. Thus, I have nothing snide to say. This is probably a first. Enjoy it while it lasts, kids. **

By the time we have reached the cafe, I am thoroughly cured of my appetite. Agent David's driving makes a New York taxi driver look like my grandmother. It is only two or three blocks to the cafe, but the sky is grey with rain clouds, and Agent David is stiff and sore, so I had foolishly agreed to take the car. Regret is too weak a word for what I feel now. Perhaps atrociously nauseous is more accurate a term.

At any rate, when we are seated at a small wooden table in the corner of the dimly-lit cafe, lunch is the last thing on my mind. I am alternating between suppressing the urge to vomit and thanking the gods of traffic for showing mercy towards me. I try very hard not to look at the menu, or at the food at surrounding tables, as I doubt Agent David would appreciate me soiling her boots. Instead, I focus on how exactly I am planning on phrasing my request.

After Agent David orders her lunch - I get a cup of weak tea and some nice, bland shortbread - she fixes me with inquisitive brown eyes and asks, "You wanted to ask me something?"

"Um, yes," I say around my mug of tea.

"About . . . Tony?" she prompts. I put down my tea and try to figure out what I want to say.

"Yes. Well, kind of. You see, I am playing-"

"Rosali DiAngele," Ziva finishes calmly, "girlfriend to ex-Gunnery Sergeant Antonio Vincenze. The serial killer is targeting the girlfriends of dishonorably discharged Marines, yes?"

I am surprised that she knows about the case, given that she has apparently been in ICU for the last couple of days.

"I was going to be going undercover with Tony," she explains, "but then" - she gestures to her abdomen and shrugs - "things got complicated."

I am tempted to ask what exactly happened, but then I remember the guilty, tired look in Tony's eyes and think better of it. Instead, I pose my question.

"Apparently we lack the chemistry that is required to sell the role," I explain. She nods.

"That is true. You seem very . . . stiff and uncomfortable."

"I have only known the man for a couple of days," I justify, feeling defensive. She shrugs.

"Tony and I went undercover as married assassins," she replies coolly. "We had only known each other for a couple of weeks."

Ugh. Feeling distinctly inferior, I scramble for an excuse. "It's not entirely my fault! He's just as stiff!"

Ziva shrugs. "You do not allow him to touch you and play with your hair and drink your cocktails," she says, as if this somehow justifies her partner's shabby performance.

"I've known him for three days!" I repeat, my voice rising slightly. Ziva shakes her head, making her curly ponytail swing, and leans forward to look me in the face.

"No," she says, "you have known him for almost seven months. You met at a bar, and have been together ever since, though not exclusively. You are partiers - you drink, you dance, you make out in public. You are an easy airhead who works as a waitress at a bar. He is a conceited ex-Marine who thinks he is God's gift to women. You are not Tony and Elle, you are Antonio and Rosali. Understood?"

I am taken aback at the woman's intensity. "So you're saying you want me to make out with your boyfriend?"

"He is not my boyfriend," she answers crisply. "And, yes. You may have only known Tony for three days, but you have known Antonio for months. Act like it. Make up inside jokes to laugh about, think up pet names. Let him hold your hand and play with your hair and with your jewelry. Make inappropriate jokes."

I nod. "So in other words, abolish personal space?"

Ziva smiles. "Tony does not believe in personal space," she answers with a fond roll of the eyes.

I think. "But he's so . . . protective. Is he always such a chauvinist?" I ask, remembering the way he always insisted on entering the room before me, the way he waited just outside the door when I took a bathroom break.

Ziva sighs and shifts in her seat painfully. "That is my fault," she admits. "The last undercover operative . . . it did not go so well."

I remember the angry red scars on her stomach, and Tony's words, "Then you know why I blame myself."

"Is that when you-"

"Yes," Ziva answers before I can even finish the question. "It was another undercover job. Hate crimes involving Jewish naval officers and Catholic spouses. Things" - she pauses, as if searching for a way to explain - "got complicated. Being cooped up in an apartment for days on end, together. We fought, I stormed out and went for a run." She shrugs. "I was not being cautious."

"And he blames himself?" I question tentatively, torn between curiosity and self-preservation.

She nods, smiling sadly. "Wrongly. He is a chauvinist. He wanted to protect me. I" - another shrug - "do not take well to being the damsel in . . . despair?"

"Distress," I correct her automatically. "So now-"

"It is nothing that will interfere with your job," Ziva says calmly. "He is being cautious, that is all. Just promise me this."

The look on her face is so fierce that I can't think to do anything but nod.

"Do not allow him to be your bullet-proof vest. I - we need him alive, and right now I am not sure if that is his top priority. Protective is one thing, sacrificial is another. Do you understand?"

Again, her dark eyes dare me to be contrary. I nod out of fear, but make a mental note to keep an eye on my new partner.

Ziva David is scary enough when eating Caesar salad across a cafe table from me. An angry Agent David might just be even more terrifying than her driving.

Maybe.

**Do I see a Part III in the making? Do you want it? How bad? Can I make you beg for it? Huh? Huh? Huh? Haha. Just kidding. All that feedback for Part I was more than enough . . . though I will absolutely, positutely never say no to a review. And, yes, I know positutely isn't a word. But I just made it one. Take that, word-creator people!**


	3. Part III

**I apologize for not getting this up sooner. I ran into some major writer's block, and then school started up again, and I just never got around to writing this. However, I felt guilty about it so I spent my evening working, and this is what I've produced. I like it. I think there might be one more chapter after this, maybe two if I get enough reviews.**

**Disclaimer - _(n) a mean word used to lower drastically the self-esteem of __overly-obsessive aspiring authors. _**

The rain pours down so rapidly, and in such large quantities, that there is not even a suitable metaphorical description for it. It as if all the air has simply turned to water, and gravity has suddenly kicked in. It's hard to tell where one raindrop ends and another begins.

A car roars by, sending a tidal wave of dirty, gritty water flying. The loose gravel in the water makes tiny pings as it hits the body of our car, parked on the shoulder of the road.

"Is everything alright?" I ask finally, turning to look at the man in the driver's seat beside me.

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel and blows air out of his mouth. "I don't know."

The constant drumming of rain on the windows is accompanied by the squeak of windshield wipers, working at top speed, yet making not an inch of progress. I keep my eyes on the foggy windshield as I probe cautiously, trying not to be overly-intrusive.

If something is bothering him, he needs to talk about it. I am not sure I'm the person to talk to, but I'm here, so I do what I can.

"What's wrong?"

There is no answer. He taps a little more violently on the dashboard and shakes his head. Starting to feel alarmed, I rerun the evening in my head, wondering if I've done something wrong. Perhaps he is just upset by the lack of progress in the case?

"Look, Tony, I get that you're frustrated," I say as gently as I can. "I'm tired of this whole thing, too. But we definitely made progress in our roles today, even Vance said so-"

"It's not that," he says finally, keeping his face turned away from me. A flash of lightning brings a sudden burst of light into the darkness, and I catch a glimpse of his reflection in the car window. He looks like he's in pain.

"Are you hurt?" I ask, wondering how he could have been injured. No one approached us.

He shakes his head. "No. I'm just-"

He leaves the sentence hanging as another jagged finger of lightning reaches down to claw at the earth.

"If there's something going on," I say finally, deciding that honesty is the best policy in this case, "then you need to tell me about it, Tony. We need to be focused, and-

"I kept flashing back," he interrupts suddenly, eyes fixed on the raindrop-studded window. His fingers keep a steady beat on the steering wheel.

I'm taken aback. When he doesn't say anything further, I have no choice but to press for more before his defenses go back up. "How so?"

He shrugs one shoulder, keeps his face averted, and takes a shuddery breath before answering. "I don't know how much you know about my last case, but-"

"I talked to Ziva about it briefly," I admit. He nods shortly.

"How much did she tell you?"

"Only that you argued and she went for a run."

He takes another shuddery breath. "I never should have let her go on her own, but I was angry and-"

"She doesn't blame you," I say softly when he breaks off abruptly again.

"That's what makes it worse," he declares violently, angrily. "She didn't come back, so I went after her, and I was so, so angry about it. And then I found her-"

Another crash of thunder masks a violent intake of breath that verges on a sob. However, when he turns to look at me, Tony's eyes are fiery and dry.

"I can't stop thinking about it. Every time I close my eyes I can see her, bleeding out in the woods, and I think I'm going insane."

And I don't know what to do. This man I barely know is pouring a truckload full of guilt out to me, and all I can do is sit there. It seems to be all he needs.

As thunder resounds overhead, Tony turns the car back on. "She doesn't hate me, but I hate myself," he says quietly, pulling the car onto the road in a crunching of loose gravel.

We sit for a couple of minutes in silence. The only sound is the pounding of rain on the car, puctuated by violent crashes of thunder that I can feel in my chest.

"Have you talked to her about it?" I surprise myself by asking.

A car rushes by, through a puddle, and water slaps against our window, streaking the glass with dirty water and loose pebbles.

"We're not . . . very good at that," he says slowly.

I find myself impatient. "Well how do expect to improve if you never practice?" I demand. "Tony, you're letting this eat away at you, and now it's affecting your work. You need to-"

"I can't." He says it flatly, angrily. "You don't understand. We were fighting, because-"

He breaks off again, shakes his head, and sighs. Thunder booms, and the car seems to quiver with the force of the noise.

"Because?" I prompt gently.

"We were . . . pretending to be a married couple," he says flatly. "Sharing an apartment, pretending to everyone that we were in love . . ."

It hits me, and I suddenly feel like maybe I'm starting to understand.

"You fell in love."

He shakes his head. "No," he says, "I fell in love."

I remember my talk with Ziva, remember the exchange in the locker room, and I think that maybe Tony's missing something.

"Does she know?" I question.

He shakes his head. "No. I'm not an idiot. Elle, we've been working together for years, and-"

"And good relationships are built on long-term friendships," I say, feeling vaguely like I'm parroting one of those Health and Wellness magazines.

He smirks. "I don't know if you could call what we have a 'friendship.'"

I sigh and decide to be blunt. "Look," I say, "the whole reason I asked to talk to Ziva was because people don't think I work as well with you as she does. You know why? Because in and out of the office, you guys have something special. It's called chemistry, okay?"

Tony just looks at me, so I continue.

"And I don't know what you saw in that locker room," I say, starting to feel like I'm on a roll, "but I saw two people absolutely concerned for each other, who could tell something was wrong even without talking about it. And if that's not chemistry, then-"

Tony interrupts finally, looking angry for the first time. "You know what I saw in that locker room?" he demands in a tight, angry voice. "You know what I saw? I saw a swastika frickin' carved into my partner's stomach, okay? And I'm sorry if I'm not fulfilling your idealistic fairytale ending, but I can't live with myself right now, and the last thing I need to do is screw Ziva's life up anymore by-"

"By giving her the happy ending you both want?" I ask quietly. Thunder rolls directly overhead, but it's drowned out by the sudden silence in the car.

Finally, as the rain courses down, Tony turns the car back on, pulling off the shoulder with a little more force than is actually necessary. In a flash of lightning, I catch a glimpse of his silhouette, jaw clenched and eyes hard.

"She doesn't blame you," I whisper, looking out my window. Thunder crashes overhead.

"She doesn't hate me," he responds harshly, "but I hate myself."

And I can't seem to think of anything further to say because, really, there isn't a suitable response. So we drive back to NCIS in silence as, outside, the rain pours down.

**Hurray! Writer's block is over! What doth thou thinketh, oh readers of mine?**


	4. Part IV

**Agh. I'm soooo sorry for not updating. All I can say is that school has been killing me slowly but surely, and I've had time for nothing but sleep. And homework. But I'm trying to update all my stuff over the weekend. **

**So what do you think of this chapter? I could end it here, or I could wind up the case with a last chapter. Tell me what you think. I could go either way. **

**Disclaimer - Alas! The ownership-eth of NCIS-eth is not mine . . .eth. **

Things start out well. The night goes smoothly, apart from the bearded inebriate who attempts to pick a fight with Tony, until about 11:30, when a voice announces in the earwig, "The man behind you. Two tables down. He has been staring for some time."

Tony stiffens so much that it seems he has gone into rigor mortis.

"What _the hell _ are you doing here, Ziva?" he hisses under his breath. His jaw clenches and his eyes are suddenly angry.

"Doing my job, Tony," Ziva responds coolly over the system. "Now I would suggest you do the same. Give him a show."

We do, with as much enthusiasm as we can muster, given that Tony is feverishly angry and I am hyper-aware that Agent David is watching our every move.

"Relax," I murmur to him as he brushes kisses down my neck.

He breathes out a bit shakily, pulls back, and reaches for the nonalcoholic beer that our undercover bartender delivered.

"Good," my teammate, Agent Walters, chimes in. "He was definitely watching you. Still is, actually. Keep going."

I allow Tony to kiss me again. We both try to pretend that we are enjoying it, though neither really is.

When we finally move back into our own personal space, Tony sighs. Pretending to scratch his jaw, he asks, "Can we call it a night now? We've got our guy."

"We cannot arrest him for staring, Tony," Ziva replies. I watch the way Tony's eyes harden, and I wish that Agent David would just stay quiet. "He could very well just be a lonely man."

Tony starts drumming on the table, much like he did on the steering wheel the night before. "So what do you want us to do then, Agent David?"

I wince as he addresses her by her surname. The sudden lack of chemistry steals the motivation right out of me. I can't rightly kiss the man when he's upset like this.

I voice my opinion under the pretense of ducking to fumble through the knock-off designer bag that matches my uncomfortably high heels. "I think we should call it a night. He's not going to approach us today. He studied his victims for days before striking, remember?"

There's a moment of silence over the airwaves, then Gibbs snaps into the phone, "Call it a night. Same time tomorrow."

Tony sighs in relief and jumps to his feet. "Thank you, boss!"

"The van's parked in the parking garage four blocks down," Agent Walters informs us. "Take your time. You've done well. Don't screw up now."

...

We had walked to the van and ridden back to NCIS in total silence. Tony is angry, and I'm worried for some reason.

Today I have brought my own car, so I ride home alone. I debate turning on the radio, but the noise is like salt in a wound after hours of bright lights and partying people with no sense of propriety or volume-control.

I am on edge. Somehow I have gotten myself emotionally invested into this sticky-situation that might be called chemistry, and the knowledge that Tony sped off in the opposite direction of his apartment building leads me to one conclusion. The talk I have been urging for all this time is about to occur, for better or for worse.

And that is why I don't immediately remove my earwig. Because I know for a fact that Tony has a terrible habit of leaving his own earpiece in.

Today is no different. In his fury, DiNozzo has forgotten completely about the broadcasting bug in his ear. I know it's snooping, but I can't help it. A fight like this is going to need a referee anyway.

Tony drives in silence. I hear footsteps on a staircase, then pounding on a door. Then voices.

"It is unlocked, you know." That is Ziva, voice dryly amused and impossibly collected.

"Figures." That is Tony. His voice grates angrily on my eardrum.

"What does that mean?" An edge of warning. A door closes in the background.

"Taking enough risks as it is, might as well leave our doors wide open and post our social security numbers on Facebook, right?"

I wince. Sarcasm is never a good sign.

Ziva sighs. "Tony. I am-"

"If you tell me that you're _fine_ one more time, David, I swear . . ."

Tony's voice trails off like he can't find a suitable threat. Finally, Ziva answers. She sounds irritated but sympathetic.

"But I _am_. I understand that you are-"

"Don't talk," Tony snaps. More footsteps, like he's pacing. "Just . . . don't."

"What would you like me to do then?" Ziva demands. More irritated than sympathetic now.

"I want you to shut up and listen to me, David, and stop pretending you're okay."

Ziva, surprisingly, does not retort. "I am listening."

"I was talking with Elle yesterday. About . . . the case."

"Which one?"

"Both." Tony hesitates before continuing. "I was acting stiff, and she wanted to know what was up."

"Were you as idiotically stubborn with her as you have been with me?" Ziva's voice is simultaneously flat and sharp, like a slap on the face or a false note on the piano.

"Actually, no. _Some_ people actually talk about things when they're angry." Tony's voice is so heavy with sarcasm that it drops the musical score an octave.

"I see. Just not you."

"We're talking about _you_ here, David," Tony snaps. Sharp, dissonant staccatos.

"I am fine. It is you I am worried about," Ziva says quietly. The fight is gone from her voice.

"I kept . . . flashing back," Tony admits. Resignation plays a solo now. "Every time I had a second to think, I would flash back, and-"

"It is not good to dwell on these things, Tony." There is no irritation now, just sympathy and compassion. I can feel the chemistry beginning to return.

"How the hell am I not supposed to dwell on it?" Tony demands. Ziva seems to have lost her anger, but Tony is just getting started. "You don't understand what it was like for me. Every time I _blinked_, I could see _you_, and I would have to remind myself that you were okay, that you weren't _dead_. And I finally start getting things under control, and then you start talking in my head! I almost had an effing heart attack, Ziva!"

"I . . ." Ziva doesn't know what to say. Her voice trails off as Tony continues.

"You're not even supposed to be on desk duty! So what the hell are you doing on surveillance? Do you have some sort of hero complex that demands you constantly put yourself in the line of fire? Do you get some sort of sick rush from taking stupid, senseless risks?"

"I was worried," Ziva says quietly, "about you."

And just like that Tony loses his steam. "What?"

"I knew that you blamed yourself." She speaks calmly and coolly, like she hasn't just been subjected to such verbal abuse. "And Agent St. Pierre mentioned that you were being overprotective."

Tony sputters, but no words come. So Ziva keeps talking.

"I know that you are upset right now, Tony. I know that you haven't recovered from the last mission. I was worried that you might . . . act rashly."

"You thought I was gonna go suicidal?"

"I was concerned that your safety was far from your first priority. So I made it my own."

"Well it shouldn't be!" Tony explodes. "Damnit, Ziva, would you quit playing the self-sacrificing heroine?"

"I am not-"

Tony's got his fight back, and this time he is not relinquishing. "You just go and you do all this stuff and you almost _die_, and then you justify it all by saying that it was for _my_ sake. Well how do you think I'd feel if you _died_, trying to protect me? Do you think I'd just . . . get over that?"

"I am not planning on dying-"

"Yeah, well were you _planning_ on being ambushed when you went for a run? Were you _planning _on getting a swastika carved into your stomach?"

"_I did not die_," Ziva says it slowly, enunciating her words to make a point.

"But you could have." Tony's words are only just above a whisper, and they are full of pain and self-loathe.

"On the mission," Ziva whispers finally, "before I stormed out and things got . . . _complicated_, you wanted to talk to me about something, yes? Only I was cranky and you were being cryptic, and-"

"We were both being idiots," Tony says tiredly. "_I _was being an idiot."

A long silence.

"It was not so bad, pretending to be married," Ziva says finally, "was it?"

"No," Tony agrees. "It wasn't."

The weighted silence that follows suddenly reminds me that I am eavesdropping on something intensely personal. Slowly, as Tony and Ziva make stunted conversation with many a weighty undertone, I take my leave.

Chemistry has been restored once more.

**Well there's you have it. If you want another chapter, I'll gives it to ya. If you don't, I won't gives it to ya. If you just want me to shut up and stop talking like an imbecile . . . well, I'm a bit too tired to sound intelligent, but I'll give it my best shot, I promise.**

**So what did we think of the season premiere? Personally, the Tiva moments were pretty awesome and left me smiling like a retard all through commercials, but the rest . . . was disappointing. The case itself was so weak . . . and a hospital gown is not the most attractive choice of garments for DiNozzo. Just saying. **

**So tell me what you think. Input on the story, on the premiere, on my overly-long and rambling author's notes . . . I'll read it all. I promise to update all my stuff again ASAP. Oh, but for those of you who read Unraveling and asked for a follow-up, I apologize, but I'm out of steam in that direction. It's the whole enchilada, cliffy ending and all. That shouldn't stop the rest of you from clicking onto my profile page and reading it of course . . . (subtle hints are not really my forte, huh?)**

**Well that's all I've got. Peace out, duuuuudes. **


	5. Part V

**The fantabulastic (Yes, I did just make that word up) feedback has convinced me that another chapter is in order. So here you have it, every last word of it, including a resolution to the case. What do you think? **

**Disclaimer - If I owned NCIS, I would be a character on the show, and I would probably be playing Ziva . . . because she's awesome and I want an accent like that. Plus then I would get to kiss Tony . . . who she would be in a relationship with already! You know, since I'd be in charge :-)**

"When this is over," Tony declares, slamming his emptied bottle of non-alcoholic beer down onto the table with a bang for emphasis, "I'm taking you out, Elle, and we are going to drink ourselves into oblivion."

"That sounds fantastic," I tease. "Your treat?" He takes my own beer out of my hand and swigs some.

"Oh, no. You can pay."

"How kind," I say dryly, snatching back the bottle. He shrugs, but before he can respond Gibbs' voice cuts in over the earwig.

"Target spotted. Heading for the bar. Everyone in position?"

"Being groped at the bar," Saunders snaps, "if that's what you mean."

"Good," Agent Gibbs says calmly. "McGee?"

"Surveillance is up, boss," Agent McGee responds. "Agents are in position."

"Ziver?"

"I am in the alleyway," Ziva answers calmly, "freezing, but in position. Hurry it up. There is a man across the street who seems to think I am a crooker."

Tony doesn't tense as much as he did three days earlier, but he does bite his lip viciously. "A hooker, Zi. . ." His eyes follow our suspect, Jake Myrtle, to his seat. "I see him, boss. He's headed for the usual table."

"Pucker up, lover boy," Ziva says cheerfully over the earwig. Tony rolls his eyes and leans toward me.

"You would get that one right," he murmurs before pressing his lips to my jaw.

"I have been practicing." Ziva sounds proud.

"Now if only we could get you to use contractio-" Tony breaks off as our suspect stands abruptly. Under the guise of whispering in my ear, he hisses urgently, "Boss, he's carrying!"

I giggle a little bit, covering my hand with my mouth, and murmur, "Left hip pocket."

"Saunders!" Gibbs' voice is sharp, suggesting that he is on edge. At the bar, my pretty blonde co-worker lifts her head casually from the martini she's preparing like a pro.

"I see it. He's-"

I try not to tense as our suspect, Jake Myrtle, slides into the booth next to me. Instead, I feign irritation. "Um, do you _mind_?" I demand, untangling myself from Tony and fixing the balding man with a glare.

"I have a gun in my hand," Myrtle says in a low voice. His breath smells of alcohol and his eyes flash manic. "And, I swear, I will blow your loser boyfriend's brains out if you do anything stupid. You understand me?"

The fear in my eyes as I nod is not entirely an act. The man grins. He is small, diminutive, but his eyes glow with something more than booze. "Good. I want you to stand up, nice and slow, okay? You scream, you try to run, I shoot to kill. Comprende?"

"Gibbs," Ziva says over the earwig. "A man is approaching. The one who was gesturing at me-"

Tony's arm, which he has wrapped protectively around my waist, stiffens. I squeeze his hand reassuringly and step out of the booth. I can see the gun, the tip just poking out from under Jake's jacket.

"Get him out of the alley, Ziver," Gibbs instructs sharply. "Do what you have to do, just-"

"Understood," Ziva interrupts. Tony's arm tightens a little more around my waist.

"Walk towards the back door," Jake instructs me. He is grinning in anticipation. "Nice and casual. Just remember, I'm right behind you. With the gun."

We walk slowly, trying to appear like frightened people trying to appear casual, which is even more complicated than it sounds. Saunders winks at me as we pass the bar, though she, too, looks nervous.

"Alley's clear," Gibbs announces. "We're in position."

"Open the door," Jake orders coolly, prodding my back a bit with the gun. "As soon as you get outside, get against the wall with your hands in the air. Try anything, there's a bullet through your head."

Tony pushes me in front of him, opening the door and ushering me through as a gust of cool night air hits us. The alleyway looks abandoned, but across the street I can just make out a van, hidden in the shadows. I can only hope that Myrtle doesn't see as well.

"Against the wall!" Jake snaps. His voice is high with nervous tension. I start moving towards the wall, breathing in and briefly closing my eyes, counting the seconds with my heartbeats. _One, two, three, fou_-

The door slams shut, and Tony and I burst into action, whirling and pulling guns in unison.

"Federal Agents! Drop your weapon!"

Our shouts mingle with four or five others, agents swarming to block the alleyway's exit. Even Agent Saunders, skimpily clad in the shortest of skirts, makes an appearance. I don't want to know where she's been hiding that gun, though her outfit really doesn't leave much to the imagination.

Jake's eyes bulge, darting rapidly about. For a second he looks like he might try to bolt, or fight back, but then Gibbs shoulders his way through the agents, yanking DiNozzo and me back with his free hand.

"Drop the weapon, Jake," Gibbs repeats, so calmly, so full of conviction, that it is impossible not to do what he says.

"This has got nothing to do with you!" Jake growls. His hands, clutching the gun that is pointed at me, shake a little bit. "This is justice! _Justice_! He throws away his life, his _country_, for what? For _her_? For a pretty face in a short skirt?"

"Put down the gun," Gibbs repeats, slowly moving forward. His eyes are like steel.

"My son," Jake whispers suddenly, face crumpling. "He was - he was always a good boy. He wanted to help people, t-to defend his country! But th-then he got - he got mixed up wi-with people, bad people . . . people like _her_!"

He gestures violently with his gun. Tony's hand tightens convulsively on my wrist.

"She's a _cop_," Gibbs says calmly. "He's a _cop_. I'm a cop. _ They_ are all cops. And each and every one of us has a gun. You're outnumbered, Jake. Face it. Put the gun down, and we can work this out."

Jake's eyes dart around, shiny and frantic and not quite human. Tony takes my arm and pulls me a little further away from him.

"She's a . . . a cop?" Myrtle whispers. He looks utterly confused.

"Yep. A damn good one, too." Gibbs voice is sincere, and despite the circumstances, my heart swells with pride. "Enough people have lost their lives. Good people, like your son. No one else has to die, Jake."

"My son . . . He was a good person!" Jake insists. "It was all the girl's fault, all her fault! If he'd just stayed away, just listened to me, he would be alive. H-he was always so good with a gun. He was a gunny, you know that?"

Gibbs nods. "I was a gunny."

Jake's gun lowers just a bit as he turns to regard the silver-haired man in front of him. He nods approvingly. "You look it. Tall, sinewy. Like my Matt. He was a gunny. And a good person, you hear me?"

"I believe you." Gibbs speaks softly. He takes a step closer to the drunken man. Jake's gun hand sags a bit.

"That girl . . . she got him messed up. He wasn't in his right mind. It - it hit him hard, the discharge. Then she cheated on him, on my Matty, that-"

"Jake!" Gibbs says sharply as Myrtle's hand clenches on the gun and lifts it into the air once more, pointed directly at me. "Jake, hurting my agent isn't going to bring him back."

"And Matty - he was always so good with a gun - he went down into the basement, and-and-" Jake swallows hard. His voice cracks as he repeats, "He was always so good with a gun . . ."

And then Jake, like his son before him, puts his gun to his head.

All of a sudden Gibbs bursts into action, closing in the final stretch between the two men rapidly. There's a bang that echoes in the alley and in my head.

And then there's just the muffled sobs of a broken, bitter shell of a man.

The agents move in, but I can't bring myself to move. My stomach, already queasy with all that fake beer, lurches as Jake Myrtle's rasping sobs increase in volume. I have to steady myself on the wall and breathe.

"Elle? Elle?" Tony's voice registers in my mind, and I turn to face him. He looks a little bit shaken as he asks, "You okay?"

"I . . . think I need to go sit down," I admit as my knees wobble a little. "All that beer-"

It's a lame excuse, one we both know to be false, but Tony accepts it with a simple nod. "Maybe I _shouldn't_ take you out," he jokes feebly, hooking an arm around my waist and helping me out of the alley, "if fake alcohol gets you like this, what'll the real deal do?"

When we reach the curb, I sit down on the sidewalk and stretch my legs, pull off my high heels. A moan floats out from the alley and makes me wince. Like a child, I cover my ears to try and block out the awful noise.

"I had never thought about him like that," I admit after a minute, fixing my eyes on the red pedicure that Saunders insisted I get, in order to fit the part. "I mean, he was a psycho. He was a mindless killer. He was cruel, he was-"

"A father," Tony voices tiredly. "I know." He turns around, taking in the area with eyes that are suddenly on the alert. "Where's . . . where's Ziva?"

His voice is suddenly tense as he whirls again, his eyes combing the dim street way for his partner. I get to my feet, gun in one hand, heels in the other, and look for myself. "She's not in the alley with the others?"

He shakes his head shortly. "No. I checked as soon as they ran in."

Of course he did. But I don't say that. "Maybe we should call-"

Tony holds up a hand to silence me and speaks into the earwig. "Zi? Where are you?" There's no answer. Tony looks into the alley, where Gibbs is getting poor Jake Myrtle to his feet, running through the faces again. Sure enough, Ziva's not there. "Zi? Ziva?"

I try on my earwig, just in case Tony's is malfunctioning. "Agent David? Ziva?"

Nothing.

"Boss!" Tony yells, starting towards the alley. "Where's Ziva?"

Gibbs' face tenses. He, like Tony and I, turns and surveys the area, then tries paging the MIA agent on his earwig. "Ziver?"

There's a long moment of silence, then a voice crackles in over the airwaves. "Gibbs, I think that . . . we may have a problem."

**Oh nooooo! A cliffy! My second this weekend! I seem to take a deranged sort of satisfaction from being mean. Mwa-ha-ha-ha! And you can't even kill me, because the last (and final, I swear) chapter is in my hands! (Well, it's in my brain, cuz I didn't actually write it yet) It's like a hostage situation! Mwa-ha-ha-ha! **

**I had thought this was going to be the last chapter, only I got carried away with my Jake Myrtle-Gibbs confrontation scene (which did NOT turn out the way I was planning) and so it was too long. Plus when I got to the 'Houston, we have a problem' line, I just HAD to stop! It was a built-in cliffy line! **

**So deal. After leaving me a review. You can tell me you hate me and my stupid cliffies (not to mention my over-long author's notes), for all I care. Just as long as you give me some feedback from the story as well! ;-)**


	6. Part VI

**You have no idea how sorry I am. Not only did I totally abandon this story for months, I left you on a very mean cliffy, didn't I? I am so ashamed. But it wasn't for a lack of trying - I swear, I wrote this darn thing over at least 10 times, because I thought you guys deserved the very best ending I could give you. Finally, finally, finally I think I got it right. **

**Disclaimer: Elle is mine. If you say otherwise, I will lug you into court and beat you over the head with the judge's nice gavel thingy. Once you're properly subdued, we can talk copyright. **

The alley is dim, plastered with wet leaves and trash that has decomposed into a clumpy brown substance that smells of rot. There is a peeling blue dumpster in one corner and a prone figure in the other.

The man is motionless except for the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his chest, which corresponds with the little white clouds of mist that accompany his exhale. He is alive, and seemingly unhurt, though there will no doubt be a gruesome bruise on his temple, where he was pistol-whipped into submission.

In that moment, in the darkness, Agent David looks not quite human - her hair and eyes wild, her face deadly calm. The hands that hold the gun aimed down at the unconscious man never waver.

That is when the smell hits me - not of the rotting leaves or the grimy dumpster, but something rich and sharp and coppery that fills the air like the swirls of misty breath.

There is a wavery depiction of a swastika blooming blood-red on the white of Ziva's shirt, thickening and running until the twisted symbol is little more than a blur of red darkness.

The breath catches in my throat, the mist thickening until I cannot swallow.

"Ziva," Tony whispers, and the spell cast by the wild, bloodied beauty dissipates with the fog that accompanies his words. The silence, too, melts into a heated swirl of panic and copper and wailing sirens that does nothing to warm the chill that has settled on my gut.

...

There is such a thing as family, and as friendly as Tony and I have become, I am not a member of such an exclusive club. I have no credentials, know no secret handshake, and so I am forced to lurk on the sidelines, pacing restlessly in bare feet so cold they burn, peeking in on a world I am not worthy of partaking.

Gibbs is angry. His spine is stiff, his words sharp, like icicles, as he promises a fate more terrible than death to the poor, defenseless 911 operator on the other side of the phone line. He shakes his head and growls in disgust - terrible, inhuman - even as he throws concerned looks over his shoulder at the figures that crouch in the rotting, damp darkness.

McGee is very white and he wipes bloodied hands convulsively on his pant legs until I am sure he will contract painful fabric burns as he reports to his snarling, pacing thorn bush of a boss.

"She said he threw her up against a wall," he says, and the horror in his face transforms him into little more than a schoolboy. "The stitches tore all the way up her stomach." McGee's gulp is audible even from where I stand, a detached figure on the island of the sidewalk. "Boss, she's really bleeding-"

"That's what happens when stitches rip, McGee," the silver-haired leader retorts. His threats increase in both morbid creativity and fervency, and I begin to wonder if it is still the operator he is bargaining with.

Tony is little more than a huddled figure in the distance, his clothes fading like shadows in the dingy alleyway. Really, all that is visible is a blur of astonishing red on white, like a banner or a flag or a burning sun in a barren sky.

His words hitch-hike on the icy wind, traveling out of the darkness and into the harsh illumination of the streetlights, as he pleads with the dark-haired woman in his arms.

She is not allowed to cop out like this, because he hasn't won their argument yet, and because she owes him money for that DVD she spilled coffee on, and because he needs her, and because this is the absolute _stupidest, lamest_ way that somebody could _possibly_ choose to die, and he doesn't think she'll ever live it down if _this_ is the death of her choice.

But the words themselves are not so important, I find, as I watch Tony's hand travel up and down the contours of his partner's face, brushing back her hair, playing along the delicate skin of her eyelids, as the tone with which they are delivered, and the way green eyes are zeroed in on brown.

She says something that I cannot hear, because her voice is choked with something a bit more gruesome than emotion. The blouse she wears has been reduced to little more than a rag, fit only for the set of a cheap horror movie of the chainsaw variety.

Tony heaves a long sigh that swirls like a cloud before being whisked away by the wind, and answers the unheard question. "When? I don't know. Maybe that time you flipped out about the cockroach? Right after we moved in? Or when I walked in on you singing Sound of Music in the shower?"

She says something else and he laughs a little bit - a real laugh despite the circumstances - and lets his fingers trace the shape of Ziva's lips.

"I'm serious. I don't think it was one moment so much as a bunch of really small, really stupid ones, you know? It just felt . . . right."

"St. Pierre!"

I am jolted out of my eavesdropping as the taut, crackling ball of fury that was once Leroy Jethro Gibbs cradles his cell phone between his shoulder and cheek and stops cursing at the elevator music playing over the phone line long enough to toss me a pair of NCIS sweats and a balled-up pair of socks. "Get changed," he says gruffly, "before you freeze your butt off out here."

I hate to leave, but a protest would be dangerous right now, because Gibbs' eyes have already frozen over once more and he has already stormed away.

If not for the gnarled lump of knobby socks in my hands, the entire moment could have been nothing but a figment of my non-alcoholic drunkenness.

I hurry inside to change before the warm fabric in my hands can fade away like the mist of my breath in the air.

...

I am absent all of thirty seconds, but it appears that a lot can happen in half a minute, when a life teeters so dangerously on the brink of icy mist.

The sirens wail onto the scene as I step out of the bar's restroom and dash for the door in my socked feet. Paramedics are scurrying about like the busy little rodents in Disney's Cinderella, shouting out unintelligible statements that supposedly pertain to the status of Agent David.

The Israeli is hustled onto a stretcher and wheeled into the ambulance as the EMTs form a mini-parade around her, dancing about with blood-pressure monitors and I.V. tubes to the throbbing tune of the wailing ambulance.

Ziva's eyes, astonishingly, as wide open and surprisingly lucid - very, very dark in the white, blood-drained canvas of her face. Her features paint a picture of serenity.

Tony half turns back, catches Gibbs' nod of approval, and disappears into the belly of the obnoxiously loud beast, clutching a slender, tan hand until the fingertips are white.

As the ambulance screams away, the silence it leaves behind is nearly as stunning as the noise had been.

...

I toss and turn that night, mentally disputing the boundaries of acquaintances and friends, and wondering if it would be intolerably cheesy to send a store-bought card emblazoned, no doubt, with pastel-colored cartoon flowers and poetic well-wishes.

I want to visit, because Tony is my friend and because my hands itch as if submerged in a liquid thicker than water, but the circular pilgrimage around and around the white-tiled floor of the waiting room is reserved only for those who have weathered the years and suffered the times.

I am unworthy to sit in one of those dreadfully uncomfortable plastic chunks of a chair and leaf blindly through the pages of an out-of-date housekeeping magazine. The blood is not mine, and the pain I feel is for others. Empathy is not this exclusive club's secret password.

Instead I wander in and out of bed - to the bathroom to wash my hands free of nonexistent blood, to the kitchen to swallow down Tylenol between gulps of the evening's cold tea for my elephant of a migraine, to the living room to flip channels until the wall opposite the television has been transformed into a movie screen of disjointed colors and lights that blur and wash together.

The ringing of the telephone shatters the silence and jolts me out a comatose state brought on by mass exhaustion.

I answer hesitantly, unsure what to expect, whether to expect anything at all. After all, I am little more than an acquaintance - a coworker at best - and I suppose I can always bribe Fornell into giving me an update.

"Hello?"

My words are so sleep-blurred that they are barely coherent. The voice on the other end of the line is just as weighted with sheer exhaustion. "Elle? . . . It's Tony."

I don't know whether to be surprised or relieved, and settle for toppling my mug of cold tea instead. "Tony! Hi!" I say, struggling to keep the sleepiness out of my voice and the tea away from my rug. "How are you holding up? How's Ziva?"

"Still in surgery," he says flatly. "She . . . was in pretty bad shape. Blood-loss and all that."

I wince and try to imagine what could be running through Tony's head right now. I truly have no idea. "And you? Are you okay?"

There is a long pause, and then he says honestly, "I won't know until we find out if- if she's okay or not."

"Oh, Tony . . . " I know he will hate the sympathy in my voice, so I collect myself by swigging what remains of the ice-cold tea in my mug. "Well, I appreciate the update. Let me know if I can do anything. I can pick up breakfast or spare clothes-"

"I told her I loved her," he interrupts. I choke on my tea and nearly spurt it out my nose, the way my older brother used to do when he was trying to gross me out. "I told her, in the alleyway."

"I- Good for you," I say finally, firmly placing my mug a safe distance away from me to avoid further crisis.

"She pulled a Hans Solo. Said she knew."

"Are you glad you told her?" I ask, hoping it doesn't sound like an I-told-you-so.

"Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe." He sighs. "Damn, there was a lot of blood."

I wait, because I sense this is what he called for - the sympathetic, listening ear of a virtual stranger who will make no judgments.

"It was everywhere. I couldn't breathe. I didn't know what I was saying - I was just trying to stop myself from thinking. She was dying, Elle-"

"Tony," I say sharply. I recognize the despairing note of panic in his voice. "Tony. Do you love her?"

He breathes in sharply, then sighs. "I- yes. Damnit, yes."

"Then there's nothing to regret," I state. "She loves you, Tony. She does. And you two are going to get married some day, and you'll name your kid after moi, and you'll all live happily ever after. Okay?"

There is a long silence. Then- "Remind me again why you're wasting away your days as a cop when you're so clearly destined for the life of a motivational speaker?"

I laugh despite myself. "Gee, I don't know. Maybe I'll quit and write a book."

I can almost see him grinning. "Just as long as I get a shout-out in the dedication."

"There'll be a whole chapter dedicated to you and your crazy partner," I promise.

He laughs. "Thanks, Elle."

We both know he is not referring to my generous offer of a Tiva chapter.

...

The surgery goes off without complications, and life moves on with tons of them. Vance's letter of commendation joins the others, framed on the wall of a new office, thanks to my promotion.

I friend Abby and Agent McGee on Facebook, smile and chat for a couple of minutes when I run into Doctor Mallard at the supermarket, and find a package on my door one day that, upon opening, reveals the most exquisitely carved birdhouse I have ever seen.

Tony calls me several times throughout the following months, to inform me that his chapter is gonna have one hell of a happy ending, if the newfound ring on Ziva David's browned hand has anything to say about it.

He laughs when I tell him that I'd had one planned all along.

**Hooooly crap! I just officially finished my first ever multi-chapter fic on this website! Eeeeeee! I am so absurdly happy right now!**

**Ahem. I would like to take the time to thank each and every single one of you awesome people - both those who've been there since chapter one, and those who just joined the party. I am soooo sorry for leaving you hanging for so long. In an effort to make things up to you, I am going to be extra diligent, and reply to each and every one of you who reviews this chapter. Thank you all so much for your support! **

**Somebody asked me for a sequel a while back, and while I've got nothing in mind right now, I can recommend you head over to my profile and take a look at my newest baby - Dear Diary, DiNozzo Style, which is another outsider's perspective of Tiva from a unique angle - their daughter's point of view! It was originally fluff, just like this, but obviously my mind does not work that way for very long. **

**So thank you all. Sorry for being a lazy bum with massive writer's block. Review, even if you just yell at me for my long departure. Pleeeeeeease? **

**Love, hugs, and cute shoes to all of you. 3 - Styx**


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